Zanthian Zing
by volley
Summary: The crew of Enterprise bravely face a serious contingency... Written for "Sir, we have a problem" Month.
1. Chapter 1

Here is my entry for "Sir, we have a problem" Month (January). Warning: total silliness ahead!

I dedicate this story to Gabi2305, who put in such a fine and popular suggestion for a Special Month.

RoaringMice betaed, doing the usual great job.

§ 1 §

The rumour had started at o-seven-forty-five, when Michael Rostov, at breakfast, in the Mess hall, while looking for something sweet in the serving cabinet, had overheard a certain conversation. In the matter of minutes it had started its marathon around the ship.

By o-eight-ten it had already made a couple of laps in Engineering where, finally, it reached the Chief Engineer's ears.

Trip immediately went up to his subordinate, a frown firmly in place. "What's this I hear, Michael?"

"Sir, we have a problem," the man replied darkly. And he told him what he had heard.

"What?" Trip cried out. "Do you realise what that's gonna do to the crew?"

"Don't I ever," Rostov whined, raking a hand through his hair. Taking a more formal stance, he rephrased, "Yes, Sir, I do," adding with resigned courage, "but I'm afraid there is nothing to be done about it, at this point. It's too late to – "

"It's never too late," Trip muttered through a clenched jaw. "And there's never nothin' to be done."

With that he marched out of Engineering.

* * *

Around o-eight-fifteen Lieutenant Reed, standing at the main console on the elevated platform in the Armoury, glanced over his shoulder for the third time in the past five minutes at his three A-shift men. They had been whispering amongst themselves like bloody conspirators since the moment they had set foot in the place.

Malcolm slowly counted to ten; then turned all the way and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. The movement alone caused the three to stand at attention in a neat line, which was good to see. But it wouldn't let them off the hook. Oh, no. Not in Reed's Armoury.

"Are you three gentlemen labouring under the false hope that things in the Armoury this morning will get done by virtue of telekinesis?" he said, purposefully stressing his British accent, well aware that it was to the icy Lieutenant Reed stare what whipped cream was to strawberries.

Ensign Müller, his SIC, swallowed visibly and took a step forward. "No, Sir. It's that… I was just talking to Crewman Swanson, who got this from Ensign Paskowsky, who was told by Lieutenant Hess, who heard it from Rostov, Sir, and… Sir, we have a problem," he finally concluded. His deep voice had rung with a slight German accent, which in Malcolm's experience meant the matter was pretty serious.

Malcolm narrowed his gaze, as if by getting it sharp enough he might penetrate the man's mind and pry the answer forth before the predictable question was spoken.

"What problem?"

A moment later Malcolm's mouth twisted in a lopsided smirk. "Bother." He cradled his chin with one hand. "I can see why you'd consider it a problem, with a crew like this."

"Like this?" Müller echoed.

Malcolm heaved an audible sigh. Did he always have to explain everything?

"Yes, Ensign, like this. Mostly human, mostly Occidental, mostly male. Well, bar that last bit," he amended, when a few particular female crewmembers came to his mind.

Müller still looked puzzled.

"Get to work," Malcolm ordered, making the three snap into activity. "I'll be right back."

He ran down the few steps to the main floor and let himself out of his domain. As the ship's Security Officer, he figured it was his duty to find out if the rumour was true and, if so, see what could be done about the impending consequences.

* * *

At o-eight-twenty Hoshi went through the Sickbay doors, rubbing her temples. She really enjoyed being a woman – except for once a month.

"Ensign," Phlox greeted her, peeking out from behind a partition. "Be with you right away."

A moment later, with his bouncing step the Doctor was coming towards her. "Headache?" he said, after but a quick look. "It's that time of the month, hmmm?"

Hoshi's eyes grew wide. "Are you a Doctor or a mind-reader?"

Phlox chuckled. "It doesn't take a mind-reader to tell. It's written all over your face, Ensign."

Hoshi groaned. "Just what a woman likes to hear," she sighed, leaning back against a bio-bed. She willingly stretched her neck to receive a hypo of analgesic. Another sigh left her lips as the drug took almost instant effect. "Have you heard the rumour that is going around the ship this morning?" she asked, now that she had full reasoning abilities again.

"You are the third person who has asked me," Phlox replied. "And if it's true I might have to prepare for an emergency, start working on something to alleviate the symptoms in those affected." His intrigued blue eyes roamed over Hoshi's face. "You don't seem very concerned, Ensign."

Hoshi smiled. "It's my Asian genes. I'm quite safe."

"Ah, but with a good percentage of the crew impaired, I daresay it won't be _fun_," Phlox countered. "Even for those not affected."

"I'll grant you that," Hoshi said, as she pushed off the bed. "I think it's a good idea to start thinking of an antidote. I'm afraid some of the crew may really suffer." She gave a supportive shrug and started towards the door. "Have a good day, Doctor."

* * *

At o-eight-twenty-five T'Pol, who was trying to illustrate an assignment to Ensign Marino, of the Science complement, looked straight into his hazelnut eyes and asked, "Is there a problem, Ensign? You appear to be distracted."

A blush crept up the lanky man's neck. "I'm sorry, Subcommander… it's that… Well, yes, Sir, we have a problem – uhm, Ma'am."

"A problem, Ensign?"

Marino licked his lips. "I met Ensign Mayweather before; and seeing as his face was really dark..."

"As is normal for his ethnic group," T'Pol reassured him, wondering if Humans could be so unfocused as not to notice certain things.

"Ah – uhm..."

For some reason the man's eyes were having a hard time staying fixed on hers, but T'Pol dismissed it as embarrassment.

"Therefore, as I was saying," she resumed.

"What I mean is…" Marino started at the same time.

T'Pol nodded for him to continue.

"Well, his _dark_ face looked _worried_," Marino went on. "Dark face… worried face," he explained, jerking his head sideways. "It's a way of saying the same thing… I think," he said, and then muttered something in Italian.

It seemed that there was no end to the English language's 'ways of saying'. T'Pol found it entirely confusing. But illogical people would, after all, speak an illogical language.

"Did you ask him what made him worried, Ensign?"

"As a matter of fact I didn't have to, Ma'am. He told me himself."

And so it was that also the Ship's Second in Command learnt of the overheard conversation.

"It will not affect me personally," T'Pol said, latching her hands behind her back. "However," – she hurried to add, noticing the far-from-pleased expression her statement had brought to the Ensign's face – "you did well to inform me. I appreciate that it would put considerable… _strain_ on the crew. I shall see what can be done about it."

As she hurried off to do just that, T'Pol mused that she didn't want to think of what it could do to a certain Chief Engineer. Mister Tucker was volatile enough as it was, without any help from unfavourable circumstances.

* * *

At o-eight-thirty, less than one hour from that fortuitous moment in the Mess hall, virtually everybody on board the ship had heard about the threat that loomed over them – except for the man in command: Captain Archer.

TBC

Please leave a review! I'm looking forward to your comments.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for some lovely reviews. Time to reveal the terrible fix Enterprise is in...

§ 2 §

O-eight-thirty-five. Trip turned a corner and almost smashed right into Malcolm, who was coming from the other direction. They both came to a halt at the last moment. Grey eyes met blue ones.

"How timely," the Security Officer said. "I was looking for you, Commander."

Trip heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. "Look, Malcolm, I have no time right now for your glitches." Seeing the man open his mouth to reply, he put out placating hands. "I know, I know; I promised I'd give ya a hand with the torpedo launchers. But somethin' has come up."

"Trip –"

"Listen, I'll come by the Armoury later," he cut him off, passing a nervous hand through his hair. Blowing out a breath, he explained, "Ya have no idea what kinda bomb is about to explode. No pun intended."

"If you are referring to the rumour Rostov has been spreading through the ship, I am quite aware of it. That's why I was looking for you."

Trip blinked. How could Malcolm know and keep such cool? Damn the man!

"I don't think there is a single living being on the ship who hasn't heard about it by now," Malcolm added. His eyes darted sideways for a brief second. "Except perhaps for Porthos and Phlox's menagerie; which couldn't care less anyway."

"You shouldn't take it so lightly, Lieutenant," Trip snapped. "I don't think you realise how serious the situation could end up bein'."

"Is it true, then?" Malcolm enquired, frowning. "It isn't a joke, or last night's movie that has caused Rostov to have some particularly horrid nightmare, and hallucinations?"

"I wish," Trip blew out. "It's all true. I've spoken with–" Trip's gaze shifted above Malcolm's, to the form that had appeared behind him. "T'Pol..."

"I doubt she can grasp the potential problems," Malcolm commented.

"I might fail to understand exactly the gravity of the consequences, Lieutenant, but I am quite accustomed by now to your species' volatile reactions."

Malcolm swivelled on his heels, blushed and snapped to attention all at once. "Subcommander, I meant…"

T'Pol latched her hands behind her back. "If the rumour is true, I believe we might need to give the situation the proper consideration."

"It's true. All true," Trip repeated tautly. "I just checked."

"What does the Captain have to say about it?" Malcolm enquired.

Brown, blue and grey eyes met.

"I don't know," Trip finally blurted out. "I'm not even sure he knows."

"_Everybody_ seems to know," Malcolm pointed out again, in disbelief.

Trip winced. "Yes, but rumours aren't supposed to reach the _Capt'n_'s ears."

"I suggest we find out."

The logical proposal had, of course, come from T'Pol. Trip nodded once. "Let's go."

* * *

"Computer, erase that."

Captain Archer was having a difficult beginning to his day.

Pacing his ready room, he tried for the umpteenth time to find a better way to begin his report on their first contact, the day before, with the Zanthians; a way that wouldn't make him appear like a total dolt.

Meeting the bald, stocky people had been a festival of errors and misunderstandings, and not at all amusing. Archer looked at his right hand, turning it around a couple of times, and grimaced. How on earth was one to imagine that extending a hand in greeting... Hell, he had seriously risked becoming the space version of Captain Hook. Once again he sent a silent thank you to his Security Officer and his fast reflexes; if the appendage was still attached to his arm it was because in the nick of time Malcolm had shoved him out of the way of a very large and sharp-looking ceremonial sword.

And that had only been the beginning.

Ducking under a bulkhead, Archer let out a sigh. Thank God they had brought along the right present. He'd never look at his salt shaker with the same eyes again: the humble mineral had saved their lives, managing to turn their hosts' irate scowl into a smile of delight. At least they had done _something_ right! Zanthians considered the stuff an expensive delicacy, and the generous promise of a crate of it had paved their safe return to Enterprise, much to everyone's relief – especially Malcolm's.

By the way, he'd better remember to put an official commendation on the Lieutenant's file. The man had had a hell of a day, but had given proof of great professionalism.

With a sigh, Archer let himself drop into his desk chair. He tried to force his mind back to the job at hand, but it refused to obey. He glanced at his watch: o-eight-forty-five; he could call a senior staff meeting, in the Situation Room. Maybe this could wait until after that… Reaching for his cup of coffee, he brought it to his lips, only to replace it a moment later with a wince. What kind of a hellish brew had Chef concocted this morning?

His doorbell rang and he looked up in surprise.

"Come," he called, secretly glad that someone was going to provide a good excuse for postponing his seemingly impossible task. He hadn't expected his entire senior staff to file into his room, though.

Greeting his officers with a smile, he quipped, "Either this is a mutiny, or something very serious has come up."

"The second, Capt'n," Trip said, straight-faced. "Which might very well lead to the first."

Archer frowned. "What are you talking about, Trip?" Now that he thought about it, he had noticed a few unhappy faces around the ship that morning.

Trip exchanged a quick glance with Malcolm and T'Pol, and blew out a breath. "You know that crate of salt we sent down to the Zanthians?"

"The one that convinced that charming midget of a Monarch to grant us his gracious pardon after Malcolm had sneezed in public, you had drunk the holy water instead of pouring it over your shoes in self-purification, and Hoshi – oh, woe is me! – had sniffed the sacred flower?" Archer enquired, with a sarcastic half smile.

Trip gave a tense nod. "The same."

"Ha! Never was there a better use for a crate of salt," Archer stated firmly. He turned to Malcolm. "I'm sure you agree, Lieutenant."

There was a clearing of the throat. "Indeed, Sir. Except for the fact that… there wasn't salt in that crate."

Archer felt a flutter in his stomach; mirth with a _bouquet_ of concern. "What do you mean it wasn't salt: what was it?" he asked. His mind was already reviewing the info they had about the species, trying to remember if they knew what Warp factor their ships could attain.

There was a moment of suspension. Gazes met and diverged.

"Coffee, Sir," Malcolm finally said, his British accent turning even that innocent word into something explosive.

Archer let out the breath he'd been holding with an audible groan of relief. "For a moment there I thought you'd say nitroglycerin," he commented. "How did we manage such a stupid mistake?" he snapped immediately after, frustration taking over.

T'Pol lifted graceful eyebrows. "It appears that the crate had the wrong label."

"Capt'n," Trip butted in. "The problem isn't that we sent down the wrong stuff; it's that, according to Chef, who was sayin' it to somebody of his staff this morning – that's when Rostov overheard him, so now the entire crew knows – it was our _last_ crate of coffee. No more. Zippo."

Archer looked at him deadpan for a second; then let out a chuckle. "Come on, Trip, there must be a mistake – we left spacedock with tons of coffee. We had more coffee than dilithium, for heaven's sake. We simply can't have drunk it all."

He shifted his gaze from one officer to the other, but no sign of smile appeared on their faces – not even on the two capable of such a facial expression. A dreadful suspicion dawned in his mind.

"More crates with the wrong label?" he asked in a small voice

Hands going to his hips, Trip grimaced. "The people at Jupiter Station must have been drunk," he ranted. "I went to Chef, and he says he found quite a few little surprises when he checked all of our dry food supplies early this morning. And no more coffee. He's mixed whatever is left of it with barley, but even like that we're gonna be out of it by tomorrow morning."

Archer eyed his cup and its undrinkable potion. "Great," he muttered.

"I say we go and get that crate back," Trip suggested firmly.

"Oh, no." Archer was equally determined. He was certain he didn't want to do that. "With our luck the strong aroma of the stuff stunned his Majesty's pet… _mosquito_, a grave offence, and we'd be all put to a very painful death."

T'Pol's brow creased almost imperceptibly. "Insects that small have little sense of smell," she said. "And Zanthia has a very limited insect population. I was told that plants are pollinated by–"

"Thank you, T'Pol," Archer cut her off, none too kindly.

There was a beat of silence.

"Capt'n," Trip eventually whined. "We can't _live_ without coffee."

"I like tea," Malcolm commented with an innocent shrug that earned him a glare of hatred.

Archer, who had resumed pacing, bit his lip. He had to admit that the idea of going without coffee wasn't very appealing, but there was no way he was going back to Zanthia. The Monarch might have no pet mosquito, but he was probably thoroughly pissed off that the crate they had transported down to them didn't contain what it was supposed to, and there was no way of knowing how he'd react. That grouch gave him the idea that he was the kind of person who shot first and asked questions later.

He turned to face his officers, squaring his shoulders. "To serve in Starfleet we all had to go through survival training, for heaven's sake," he said firmly. "Time to brush some of that up: we will have to survive without coffee."

Trip rolled his eyes. "For how long?" he complained. "Durin' Survival training I even ate snake meat, but it was only for two weeks…"

T'Pol filled her lungs with air and latched her hands behind her back. "Captain, a Vulcan ship could bring Enterprise a fresh supply in a reasonable time."

"Wonderful," Archer commented with a grimace. "Soval would just _love_ to come to the rescue of Starfleet's flagship for something as trivial as that. Ha! I can just see his snotty face while he tells Admiral Forrest that if Humans aren't able to stand the lack of some beverage they are definitely not ready to face the hardships and risks of space travel." He waved a hand in an eloquent gesture. "Out of the question."

"Quite frankly, Sir, I don't see this as being such a big problem," Malcolm put in, straightening his already straight posture. "The crew will simply have to drink what is available. A bit of spartan life won't hurt them."

"Says the man who doesn't give a damn if coffee's off the menu anyway," Trip grunted.

"That's not entirely true, Commandah. I do enjoy a cup of coffee once in a while."

"Oh, yeah? And when was the last time you had a cuppa coffe, huh, Loo-tenant? Lemme think..."

"That's enough!"

Archer took a menacing step towards the bickering two. Hell, when they disagreed on something their accents got unbearably thick. Both snapped to attention, and he surveyed them with narrowed eyes.

"We'll live without coffee for as long as it's necessary," he said sternly, engaging the blue eyes of his Chief Engineer. "And while we do I expect my senior staff to set a good example, and not bother those of the crew who are having a hard time with it," he continued, shifting to the grey ones of his Armoury Officer. "And now, gentlemen, get something done. We're on a starship, and I'm sure you have duties to attend to."

Simultaneous "Yes, Sir" and "Aye, Sir" echoed in the small room. T'Pol just nodded her head, looking vaguely disgusted at her Human crewmates' behaviour.

"Dismissed," Archer barked. "Not you, T'Pol," he added, as they turned to leave.

"Any... suggestions?" he asked, openly hopeful, as soon as the door had closed behind Trip and Malcolm.

T'Pol's dark eyes looked blankly back. "Regarding what, precisely, Captain?"

"Regarding how we are going to face this emergency," Archer explained with a mirthless smile.

The full lips twitched. "I could ask Doctor Phlox if he can do something to prevent... withdrawal symptoms in the crew," she finally suggested.

Well, it was something. "Good idea." Archer nodded. "Let me know what he says," he ordered.

As soon as his SIC had left the ready room, Archer finally allowed himself to sink into his chair. A waft of Chef's new blend floated sickeningly by, and a groan of despair escaped his lips. Trip was right. This was going to be much worse than eating snake meat...

TBC

Now, what could be worse than to be left without coffee?! (I had warned you this was total silliness!)

Looking forward to your comments - real Italian espresso for those who will leave a review! :-)


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

The idea for this story came one morning when I dragged my sleepy self to the kitchen and suddenly realised there wasn't an ounce of coffee left in the house. :-)

I would have never imagined there are so many tea drinkers around, especially among my readers. Good thing there are Lunaz and Lady Rainbow to balance things out, LOL! On to see how the crew reacts...

§ 3 §

_Day One_.

With the exception of their two resident aliens, Porthos, about fifteen people who ordinarily drank tea, and five who were allergic to 'c' – the word was too evocative to formulate it – discontent was already snaking its way through the crew. Archer could tell.

As he walked the corridors of Enterprise, he felt like one of those Captains of old on whose ships muttered curses and mutinous plots ran rampant. Was it his imagination or did people give him bitter askew glances, right after their military nods, when they crossed paths with him?

This was only their first day without… without the _drink_ and he would already trade his Captaincy for a pot of hot, fragrant…

_Stopit, stopit, stopit__!_

Gawd, that barley thing Chef was administering them as an alternative to tea might make a good weed-killer, maybe, but was a lousy way of ferrying his Eggs Benedict down his esophagus. This morning, in fact, it had risked making them come up.

Talking of risks; to risk a firefight for some _brown beans_ certainly made no sense, but what if he could have made a fair and safe exchange, got back what was theirs, and avoided all this suffering? Maybe he had been too quick in ordering them away from Zanthia.

Damn it, could he be so coffee-dependent as to doubt his command decision? Nah, he just felt a bit guilty towards the crew – Archer reassured himself.

Straightening his slightly sagging posture, he schooled his features to look more the part of the man in command, and nodded firmly to an approaching crewman all the while unobtrusively studying him. A _smile_? Ah - right, Graham was that nutcase who actually hated the taste of 'c'.

Finally the turbo lift was there. Archer rushed into it and pressed the button to E deck; as soon as the doors closed he leaned heavily against the wall, the confident Captain deflating pathetically. Failing all else, he'd go get a little stimulant from Phlox, and while he was there he'd see if the good Doctor had come up with anything that might relieve his… the _crew's_ withdrawal symptoms.

* * *

_Day Two_.

"Reed to Tuckah."

Trip stiffened from head to toe, and cast a venomous look in the direction of the comm. link. In the past couple of days that clipped accent had been getting him increasingly irked. Their dire circumstances seemed to have actually put Malcolm – their resident pessimist – in a good mood. Could it have something to do with the fact that two negatives annul each other? No, no. The man was definitely weird. He revelled in adversity.

"Commandah, are you there?"

Putting the hyperspanner down with more force than was required, Trip blew out a frustrated breath; then slammed a palm on the link to open it.

"Yeah. What is it, Malcolm?"

"I have been working out a few structural changes to implement security upgrades in case Enterprise were ever to be flooded," the clipped voice said. "I need the ship's Chief Engineer to take a look at them."

There it was, that irritatingly upbeat voice. On the other hand… there was another possibility; yes, one that made a lot more sense: the damn man was probably taking perverted pleasure in showing off how untouched he was by their contingency.

"Trip?"

_Sure! Now it was even '__Trip'!_

"Malcolm, I'm a little busy now."

"No need to disturb yourself. I will come up to Engineering."

Malcolm's tone was too mellifluous for the man, making his kindness suspicious; Trip restrained a groan. All he needed was to actually witness with his very eyes how well Malcolm survived on tea alone.

"Malcolm, we are on a _space_ship. Not in a submarine. It's not likely that Enterprise will ever get flooded. Therefore: _not now_, if you don't mind."

"Fine," Malcolm replied, finally betraying a touch of irritation – much to Trip's satisfaction. "If Enterprise ever crushes into an alien lake and we all drown like rats I will hold you responsible. Good day, Commandah."

The link was cut off before Trip could do it from his end. With a last, acrimonious glance at the Comm., he returned to his job.

* * *

_Day three._

Bernhard Müller lowered his phase pistol and dared acknowledge the look on his Commanding Officer's face. He had never scored so low in a target practice before.

"Not very good, Ensign," Reed indeed said, crossing his arms in front of his chest, a frown topping his displeased grey eyes. "Are you sure you're feeling all right?"

The gaze narrowed and Bernhard averted his own in self-consciousness. "Aye, Sir," he blurted out.

He wasn't very good at lying. But what was he supposed to say – I've had a hard time sleeping because I'm missing my evening coffee? It sounded preposterous, but there it was: with him coffee had the opposite effect to what it had with most people.

"Right," Reed drew out slowly, knowingly.

Blighted man: his usual brisk and sprightly self on _English breakfast_ alone! Or was it _Darjeeling_…

"Chang, let's see what you can do," the Lieutenant said, taking the pistol from Bernhard's hand.

Bernhard watched with ill-concealed envy as his colleague got his usual near-perfect score. Of course Chang was also a 'coffee-free' man. _Verdammt noch mal_ – Bernard silently cursed; if at normal times sharing quarters with someone who always had a teapot full hadn't bothered him at all, in the past three days it was driving him up the wall.

Well, he'd take comfort in the fact that he wasn't the _worst_ case on board. Apparently Marino was ready to trade a bottle of Chianti for any cups of stale coffee that may be standing forgotten on people's desks.

_

* * *

__Day four._

"Hold that light steady, I can't see a--- Ouch!"

"Shhhh! Damnit, Michael! You want to spend the next shift washing dishes?"

The reply to Travis's redundant question came as a muttered string of curses and groans, which ended in a choked out, "Better than spending it in sickbay."

Travis moved the beacon of his flashlight around and found his partner in crime, illuminating the reason for all that foul language: Rostov had apparently managed to break his fall by leaning heavily with one hand on Chef's cheese grater. Now the palm of said appendage was decorated with a lovely pattern of tiny cuts.

"Great," Travis whispered tensely. "Now you'll bleed all over! Don't touch anything!"

"Thank you for your concern," Rostov hissed back. "We're in the 22nd century and Chef's still using implements that must date back to ancient Rome!" he ranted under his breath.

"Well, it's a _hand _grater, after all," Travis quipped, flashing him a quick smile.

The joke, quite predictably, elicited only another groan, and Travis turned to search the galley with his flashlight, looking for the roll of paper towels. Tearing off a generous amount, he handed it to his injured friend. A few minutes later, the sheets were wrapped tightly around Rostov's hand.

"Now... If you were Chef, where would you hide a secret stash?" the Helmsman wondered.

"We don't even know that he _has_ a secret stash," Rostov commented, a wince of pain in his voice. "It's just a rumour, probably put around by someone who has a distorted sense of humour." He snorted mirthlessly. "I don't know why, but Lieutenant Reed comes to mind."

"We've gone through it already," Travis sighed, as he opened counters and checked inside containers. "It may be a rumour but it makes sense. Number one: Chef claims we have no more coffee, but he is the person who has all food supplies under control. Number two: he runs a tight galley; nobody can go in, except for his two helpers – who may well be in it with him. Number three: the man's Italian, which means his espresso is sacred." He stopped and turned his beam to just under Rostov's eyes. "Which leads to number four: he seems way too upbeat to be running on tea or barley. You've got to admit: it wouldn't be surprising if, knowing supplies were short, he had hoarded the last of the coffee for himself. He was so damn fond of that special Arabica brand, the one – and I quote him – smooth and mellow, rich and delicate, with---"

"Will you stop it?" Rostov whined, scrunching his eyes shut. "Torture is against the Geneva Conventions and the Vulcan-Earth treaties."

"Okay, okay."

They returned to their search, and silence fell.

"Did you hear that?" Rostov whispered a couple of minutes later, freezing.

"Oh, hell! Someone's coming! Over there!"

Travis shut off the flashlight, and they scrambled behind a counter, huddling tight.

"Capt'n, ya don't really believe it, do you?" an unmistakable voice said.

Travis received a panicked nudge. In darkness he was unable to establish visual contact with his friend, but he knew exactly what Rostov must be thinking: it had to be his boss and the Big Boss! But Archer was speaking again, and he tuned his mind back to that.

"No, of course not!" was the Captain's indignant reply. "All I'm looking for, here, is to fix myself a midnight sandwich. I'm hungry for some reason."

The light was switched on. Rostov and Travis finally exchanged a wide-eyed, enlarged-pupilled glance.

"Now, let's see…" Archer mumbled, clearing his throat.

There was the noise of doors being opened and closed; and after a moment Tucker's Southern drawl again.

"Ah, Capt'n, if ya want to make yourself a sandwich I suggest you look in the right places – like, ya know, the fridge, the bread container..."

"Uh? Ah, yes, of course," Archer came back with a nervous giggle. "How silly of me."

"Here, let me help ya."

Tucker suddenly entered their visual. Travis could see the man's backside as he rummaged inside one of the refrigerated compartments, and he made himself into an even tighter ball, shoving himself against Rostov.

"Cheese or ham?" Trip asked.

"Check if there isn't any of yesterday's turkey left," Archer came back, sounding as if he had moved to another corner of the galley. "It's probably right in the back, under everything else..."

Travis darted Rostov a 'who-does-he-think-he's-fooling' glance, and gagged: his friend's eyes were bulging and he looked in need of an oxygen mask. _Elbow_, Rostov mouthed. Travis quickly removed his elbow from the man's midsection, and a rapid intake of breath ensued.

"What was that?" Trip asked, straightening.

"That what? I didn't hear anything."

Travis watched Tucker turn, and cringed. Luckily, the man's attention was diverted by the Captain.

"Er – that's not where Chef keeps bread, Sir," the Commander said, a hint of suspicion entering his voice. He chuckled. "If you hadn't just told me differently, I'd think ya really were lookin' for Chef's so-called secret stash, Capt'n."

Archer chuckled too.

"Here." Tucker moved off and disappeared again, much to Travis's and Rostov's relief.

"Bread... turkey… And there are pickles and mayonnaise."

"Thank you, Trip." Archer cleared his throat. "Well, then. I suppose I'll take them back to my quarters. Share some with Porthos. I wouldn't want Chef to catch us in here."

"Definitely not."

Travis heard the door of the galley swish open, and steps moving away.

"Although I'm ready to bet that he'll _know_ that someone sneaked in," Tucker's voice said, fading away. "The man's worse than Malcolm, when it comes to his domain."

For a long moment, even after the silence had returned, Travis and Rostov were unable to move.

* * *

_Day five_.

"Got anything for this skin irritation, Doctor?"

The question was plain enough, but the expression on Ensign Sato's blotchy face wasn't, though Phlox could see there was a good dose of dejection swimming in self-consciousness. At the last moment he restrained one of his famous smiles – Humans tended to take them for what they were not, he had come to realise.

"My, Hoshi, what happened to you?" he said, wrapping the words in a fatherly tone.

Hoshi gave a lopsided smirk of unhappiness. "Too much chocolate, I think."

Phlox regarded her pensively for a moment. "Weren't you the one who was supposed to be safe by virtue of her Asian genes?" he teased mildly.

"Please, Doctor: don't add insult to injury," Hoshi sighed. "I was fine for about two days, and then... I never thought I'd miss coffee this much."

Chuckling softly, Phlox went to retrieve an ointment. "Apply this twice a day," he said, giving her a tube. "And stay away from chocolate for at least a week."

"Thanks."

"Anything else I can do for you?" Phlox enquired, when the Linguist made no move to go.

Hoshi bit her lip. "Found anything yet for our withdrawal symptoms?"

"Yes and no." Phlox shrugged. "I have plenty of substitutes for caffeine; but I'm afraid what people miss the most is the actual taste of coffee, and the experience of drinking it, and I can do nothing about that."

"Yeah," Hoshi said with another sigh. "Well, see you, Doc."

As she was leaving, Rostov walked in, holding a bandaged hand.

"And what have we got here?" Phlox asked, turning to welcome the newcomer.

"Uhm – engineering accident," Rostov blurted out, vaguely.

Phlox took the injured hand in his own and started undoing the rough dressing. "How on earth did you do this to yourself, Crewman?" The pattern of small cuts on the man's palm was quite curious.

Rostov winced. "Oh... an old contrivance left around… I wasn't careful… But since I'm here, can I try one of those caffeine substitutes?" he asked, with a nervous grin.

Phlox looked up into the man's eyes, which shifted quickly away. The attempt to divert attention from his hand had been quite blatant. The injury looked a few hours old, which meant it would have occurred in the middle of the night.

"Sit on that bio-bed, Mister Rostov," he ordered, choosing not to investigate further. "I'll be right back."

A few moments later the door opened again. Phlox lifted his eyes from his job on Rostov's hand and watched a compact form walk in, take in the sight and lose his momentum.

"Lieutenant Reed," he greeted. "Don't tell me you too are having problems because of the coffee emergency."

Reed cleared his throat. "Problems? Of course not," he replied perkily. "I'm here to... to get my allergy shot."

Phlox frowned. "But that's not due for another week."

"Is it?" Reed asked innocently. "Are you certain, Doktah?"

Phlox gave an inward grin. He was experiencing a sudden desire to be mischievous. "I'm positive, Lieutenant. One more week. Are you sure you don't want a little stimulant, like Mister Rostov, here?"

Reed stiffened. "Stimulant? What for? I can go without caffeine for as long as I need to."

"Ah, yes, of course," Phlox replied, finally unleashing his famous smile.

Stoic Lieutenant Reed would never admit to missing coffee, especially in front of another crewmember. Maybe, if he could have counted on Doctor-patient confidentiality, but definitely not with Rostov there.

"I'll come back in…" – Reed licked his lips – "a week, then," he concluded hoarsely.

"I'm always here," Phlox suggested. "Have a good day, Lieutenant."

* * *

_Day six_.

"Close your eyes."

Someone cleared their throat.

"Is it absolutely necessary, Subcommander?"

T'Pol heaved a deep breath. She had known this would not work. Archer's suggestion that she lead meditation sessions to help the crew control their craving for coffee was bound to fail: she'd never get past step one of the easiest level, with Humans.

Opening her own eyes, she surveyed the thirty-odd people sitting cross-legged on the floor of the gym, in front of her. Thirty-odd pairs of eyes converged on her.

"It's that I tend to see the 'c' thing, when I close my eyes," a dark-haired Ensign explained. "Especially because this exercise is supposed to make me forget about it."

Ensign Sanchez. Only a week ago she had been a rather hyperactive member of the hydroponics bay crew; now she sat listlessly with her shoulders slumped, looking like the sadder sister of herself. T'Pol supposed there was no point in arguing that what she had just said was not logical.

"I'm afraid you shall need to close your eyes, Ensign," she told her calmly. "The point of meditation is to get to a deep state of relaxation, to lower your awareness. You can't very well do that with your eyes open."

"Close your eyes, then," she began once more. "Your thoughts are draining out of your mind, like water out of a sink…"

"Ughh, that's gross," someone whispered, forgetting about Vulcan hearing.

"Your mind is empty," T'Pol continued, ignoring the soft snort in response to that comment. "It's like a large, empty room."

Silence. Some shifting sounds, but she could hardly expect them to be perfect. She suspected a lot of them were here because they had run out of options, rather than because they believed meditation would help them.

"The room is dark."

A giggle. "Perfect for _relaxing_."

"Or, if you prefer, it is full of light," T'Pol amended, repressing a sigh. "You feel perfectly at peace in it."

Silence.

"You walk in and you can hear the sound of your steps."

Silence.

"Wow, it's really working," another voice said, in surprise.

T'Pol's eyes flashed open. It had never happened to her to actually _hear_… She turned towards the treadmills and repressed a very human surge of irritation.

"Lieutenant, I did not realise you were here."

"I would be a poor Chief of Security if I weren't able to sneak past a group of people with their eyes closed," was the wry and slightly shaky – given that the man by now was jogging – reply.

T'Pol blinked once. Undoubtedly. But how had he managed to evade her Vulcan hearing? She had to have already sunk into a deep-enough level of unawareness.

"I must ask you to postpone your physical training to after we are finished," she said firmly. "Unless there is total silence, we cannot achieve the proper concentration."

Reed pressed the stop button and crossed his arms in front of him, letting the belt drag him backwards; he came to a halt just inches before falling off the machine. "It would have been wiser to choose a more fitting place for your… _experiment_, Subcommander," he said. "The gym is not made for meditation."

His voice had an edge to it, and a muscle in his face had twitched. T'Pol studied him for a moment, and came to the conclusion that if even Lieutenant Reed was giving signs of disequilibrium, then this emergency was more serious than she had anticipated.

"It was the Captain's idea," she countered with poise. "I needed a place large enough to accommodate a group."

"The Observation Lounge?" Reed tersely suggested. "Plenty of room there." He tilted his head, gaze narrowing. "An Armoury and Security Officer must keep fit. Ever since my Academy days I have exercised on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays from 18:15 to 19:45. I see no reason why I should change that, given that this isn't the only large room available."

Indeed, Lieutenant Reed's routines were famous.

They stared at each other for a long moment. With a deep breath, T'Pol turned to her disciples, who, she realised, were following the exchange with far too much amusement.

"We shall move to the Observation Lounge," she announced quietly, lest her voice carry more emotion than she would deem Vulcanly acceptable. She got to her feet, imitated by the buzzing group.

"Oh, and – Subommander," Reed called after her, as they were beginning to file out.

T'Pol turned. The Lieutenant still had his arms crossed, and the index finger of his right hand was bouncing off his exposed left bicep.

"Do remember that on Mondays and Wednesdays there is combat training, as usual."

"Of course." T'Pol let one eyebrow lift up. "I shall schedule group meditation at a different time, so that you are free to join us, Lieutenant."

Reed's jaw dropped, and she quickly left the gym, wondering if what she had just done could be considered _teasing_.

TBC

Please leave a comment, I love all those review alert messages, ;-)


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you to all my riviewers, I'm glad you don't find this too silly... though it's bound to get even worse...

§ 4 §

_Day seven_.

"Come," Archer called from the desk of his ready room.

The door opened to admit his Fourth in Command, and Archer put on a smile, while all the while he pressed an imaginary pillow to the mouth of his nagging conscience, trying to stifle the voice that for the past few minutes had been whispering things he didn't want to hear.

"Captain," Malcolm saluted, standing at attention.

"At ease, Lieutenant."

The Security Officer's shoulders relaxed fractionally, and he latched his hands behind his back. Flashing him a quick look, Archer rose from his chair and started pacing with long, slow strides. He definitely couldn't face this conversation sitting still.

"I was reviewing the reports of the past week, from the various departments," he carefully began, waving his hands in the air – and to hell if people thought gesticulating wasn't dignified enough for the man in command. "And I have noticed that accidents have risen by as much as thirty percent."

He turned to Reed, whose posture immediately regained that half-inch it had lost before.

"Regretfully, I can only confirm that, Sir," the Lieutenant said in a cavernous voice, stormy clouds gathering in his grey eyes.

_You idiot!_ Archer cursed himself, slapping an imaginary hand on his forehead. This was the Security Officer he was talking to; Malcolm would no doubt take his words as a sort of reprimand. The man had a gift: he managed to take credit for anything that went wrong on or off board. Come to think of it, it was surprising he hadn't found a way to blame himself for their running out of coffee. _Yet_. He probably hadn't found one serious enough to warrant some strict punishment, like being demoted, or thrown in the brig for a week.

One day he ought to shock him and do just that.

Forcing his gaze away from his troubled Officer, Archer resumed his pacing, seeking the thread of his thoughts again.

"No, no, what I mean is: I have spoken to Phlox, and he has given me a long list of injuries." He started counting off the fingers of one hand. "Burns; cuts and scrapes – including Rostov's mysterious…" He stopped and turned. "Any idea how he got those punctures?" he enquired, wincing. The man had been tight-lipped about the accident, and he had heard Engineering had started a contest, with a prize for whoever managed to discover the truth.

"No, Sir."

"Concussions," Archer went on, once again on the move, "slips down access stairways; even a broken bone; _ouch_!"

"Careful, Sir."

Damned lower bulkheads! Archer scowled at them, massaging his head. Though he had never actually banged into one before… Hmm…

Frowning, he continued, "One crewman managed to brush his teeth using a tube of lubricant grease; Chef almost set the galley on fire as he prepared _Vin brulé..._"

Come to think of it – Archer mused, interrupting his litany – if Chef showed signs of not being quite himself it had to mean he was suffering from withdrawal symptoms too and had no 'secret stash' after all. He turned once again to Reed.

"And… well, I hate to mention this, Lieutenant, but yesterday apparently you gave Hess a black eye during combat training."

Malcolm flinched visibly. "Sir, she got distracted," he burst out; a second later he had snapped to attention and fixed his gaze straight ahead. "But I should have been more careful, Captain, and I am prepared to–"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Malcolm!" Archer cut him off in frustration. "I will not grant you a public flogging, nor a… a keel hauling, especially without an EV suit, so don't insist; and that's an order."

Reed shot him a strange look.

"Forget it," Archer muttered, rubbing his forehead where he had bumped it; a lump was forming. Talk of distracted… He blew out a breath. "_Distracted_. Exactly. You put the finger on it: she got _distracted_. That's what Phlox has been telling me: the crew are more distracted than usual. Not to mention either too nervous or too sluggish, and generally in a lousy mood," he ranted.

"I'm afraid we all know why that is, Captain," Reed pointed out, darting him a discreet but definitely assessing look.

Archer turned for another length of pacing and, taking advantage of the fact that he had his back to Malcolm, allowed himself a grimace. Saying what he wanted to say was proving more difficult than he had anticipated. It was either now or never, though. Steadying his wavering self, he stopped and swivelled to face his Officer.

"I want to get what's ours back," he spat out.

And that was only the beginning.

Malcolm looked back speechlessly; Archer took a deep breath and added, "Without the Zanthians knowing."

Reed's eyes shifted away and back to him a couple of times. They held a measure, albeit contained, of what looked like amusement. Damn man.

"Khaptain. Am I to understand. That you'd want me to go. On a khovert operation. To rekhlaim a khrate of khoffee?"

Archer had to admit that put like that it did sound like a rather weird idea. Wait a moment – Archer mused, studying his Officer: was it disbelief or was it _excitement_, what he read on his face? With Malcolm you never knew.

Well, now that he had voiced the plan, Archer felt obliged to defend it.

"It's for the wellbeing of the crew, Lieutenant," he stressed. "As the Security Officer of this ship I'm sure you appreciate the need to do something about the current situation."

Malcom's expression turned unreadable, and Archer's hope waned. After all, the man would never understand how desperate most of them were. Him and his 'tea, dark'.

"The Zanthians would detect our ship approaching," Reed said almost to himself, in a husky voice, narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. "I doubt they would let us get close; peacefully, that is."

Ah, but he was considering the odds! His tactical mind had been set in motion! Archer gave Reed an encouraging smile. "That's why I was thinking you could use that Suliban vessel, the one that can get cloaked."

Malcolm's mouth twitched fleetingly down. "Sir, with all due respect, I don't know the first thing about how that vessel works."

"That's why I was thinking Trip could go with you," Archer parried.

Reed's eyes shifted to the floor, remaining there for an interminable moment. When they lifted back up they were crossed by a strange glint.

"If that's your order, Sir," he said, jerking his head sideways and even going as far as letting his mouth curve up.

Come to think of it, it was the mad glint Archer was used to seeing when the Lieutenant was about to fire his weapons, or blow something up.

"I shall carry it out to my best of my abilities," Malcolm concluded with self-assurance.

Archer wasn't sure whether to be relieved or worried. "I knew I could count on you, Lieutenant," he said, with a tentative smile.

Well, for better or for worse, now they were in for it. He went to his desk and reached for the comm. link. "Archer to Mayweather. U-turn, Travis. We're going back to Zanthia."

"Let's inform Trip he has a new job," Archer told his Security Officer a moment later. With a tense chuckle he added, "He should be able to work that cloaking device without making any of his limbs disappear, this time."

The grey gaze narrowed abruptly. Archer's went wide.

"Ah, no – don't even think of it, Malcolm."

* * *

"And you're positive that the cloak will hold," Malcolm said.

They had discussed this at length on Enterprise, for heaven's sake. Trip shifted his eyes off the alien commands long enough to shoot the Lieutenant a deadpan look, but of course it was all in vain for the man was not there – just as he wasn't there for him.

"You still can't see me, right?" he threw him.

"Yes, but if the effect is temporary then–"

"Of course it's temporary," Trip butted in. "You know that." With a chuckle he commented, "I have no intention of turnin' into _the phantom of Engineering_, although I'm sure Travis would have a ball with it."

There was a groan. "I mean temporary as in _too_ _short_, Commander. I wouldn't mind knowing when people will be able to see us again," Malcolm said, sounding almost nervous. "For tactical reasons, that is. How long did it take, that time, for your hand to reappear, exactly?"

"Didn't the Capt'n ask that question already?" Trip blew out a frustrated breath. "Dammit, Malcolm, we went over all this in Sickbay, and not even very long ago. Aren't you a bit young to be gettin' this forgetful?"

"Yes, yes – I mean _no_! I'm not getting forgetful." Peevishly, Malcolm explained, "I had a lot of things to figure out, and I must have got… uhm, distracted. What was it again – twelve hours?"

Trip frowned. Malcolm, _distracted_? He turned, once again futilely, to his friend. All he could see was an empty seat. It was – he had to admit – a bit unnerving.

"My hand started reappearing after fourteen hours," he patiently repeated. "But Phlox said that there's no way we can be sure it'll be the same, this time. We've cloaked a bit more than a hand. It might not hold as long."

Another groan was the only comment.

"Look, you were the one who insisted that this plan was a good idea," Trip tossed in his friend's direction. "Hell, you convinced even T'Pol that zappin' us into invisibility was _safe_ – which I sincerely hope it is, since the procedure wasn't exactly pleasant. And now all of a sudden you don't sound so sure about it any more?"

"It's not that I'm afraid," was the riled man's reply. "I'm only trying to plan ahead."

"Well, you can't, very much. We'll have to play it by ear."

Returning to focus on his job, Trip decided it was better to steer the conversation towards less worrisome issues. A covert operation wasn't exactly something he felt comfortable with in the first place.

"Can you check if we're still on course?" he asked.

"I thought you were in charge of the piloting, and I of the rescue mission."

Trip rolled his eyes. "Does it mean that once we're there I can stay with the pod and take a nap while you get that crate back?"

Sometimes Malcolm could be a real pain the rear. And recently he had been outright unbearable. The man might claim he didn't miss coffee but…

"We're off by half a degree starboard," Malcolm replied darkly, interrupting his thoughts.

Trip made the necessary adjustment, and silence fell.

They had entered the atmosphere of Zanthia some ten minutes before, and he had set a gentle descent vector to the capital city, where they would – in all likelihood – set down right in the gardens of the Monarch's palace. Hopefully not in that large fountain filled with carnivore–

"Trip?"

"Hmm?"

"Commander…"

"What?"

"VEER!"

Looking up and swerving hard to port was all Trip had the time to do; actually also closing his eyes against what looked like an unavoidable collision with a large creature obviously unaware of Suliban cloaking devices. After a few seconds, when the only bump had been that of Malcolm clearly hitting the deck-plating, he dared crack one eye open again.

"What the hell was that?" he breathed out tautly, recovering control of the vessel.

"I thought you were looking where we're going!" Malcolm hissed from somewhere on the floor.

Trip clenched his jaw. "Once in a while I have to look at the commands, Loo-tenant," he bit out. "I didn't get much practice flyin' this vessel. When we came to take the noose from around your neck Travis was doin' the pilotin'."

In the sudden silence, Trip winced with regret. The time Malcolm and the Captain had almost been hanged as military spies couldn't be a very pleasant memory for his friend; nor was it for him, actually. He had been scared as hell they wouldn't get to them in time; indeed they almost hadn't.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "You okay?"

The chair next to his squeaked, signalling that Malcolm had returned to it.

"Yes."

"I hope there aren't too many of those flying monsters," Trip muttered.

After another pause there was a clearing of the throat.

"You are aware that there is an aircraft at ten o'clock, aren't you?"

Trip cringed at Malcolm's careful tone.

"I see it."

This was getting tricky, though.

"We're getting closer to the ground, and the air traffic is bound to increase," Trip commented.

"I'll keep an eye on the viewscreen," Malcolm said quietly. "I suppose four eyes see better than two."

Trip's mouth curved up. "Good man," he replied, making sure the smile was also in his voice.

TBC

Did I mention this story was silly? :-)


	5. Chapter 5

"People who drink too much coffee could start seeing ghosts or hearing strange voices, UK research has suggested" (BBC online news) - Oh! Why didn't they tell me before?! LOL! It could have led to a few funny twists.

A big thankyou to all of you who are reading, and especially to my reviewers. On with the covert operation...

§ 5 §

Trip powered the Suliban vessel to minimum, so the cloak would hold while they were away, and finally relaxed. They had landed in a secluded part of the large gardens surrounding the royal building; the sun was setting, bathing the place in an eerie violet light.

"So how are we gonna do this without losin' each other: we hold hands?" he asked in jest.

Malcolm's reply was long in coming, which made him frown. Could it be that the perfect Lieutenant hadn't thought of that small detail?

"Not the best way, Commander" finally came back, in a serious tone. "Too… _awkward_."

Trip snorted. "Then how, Lieutenant? We have to keep in touch – no pun intended."

Something suddenly connected with him. A hand.

"Simple," Malcolm said, feeling about him and finding Trip's hand. "Hold an end of this."

Trip felt the object under his fingers and blinked. "A hankie?"

"A string of them, tied together," was the smug reply. "About a metre. Courtesy of my always well-supplied pockets."

"This is gonna feel like an outing from kindergarden," Trip snorted. "Hold on to the rope, kids, so you don't get lost..."

A tight chuckle floated his way. Apparently Malcolm was beginning to have a good time as – Trip suspected – he always did when there was an element of suspence.

"All right," the man continued a moment later. "We'll check for biosigns; and if there aren't any nearby we'll open the hatch. Once we're under way we'll keep verbal communication to a minimum."

"Understood."

"If something happens and we lose each other we'll meet at the pod no later than three hours from now."

"Yup," Trip said absently; he had already turned his scanner on and its soft buzzing was filling the pod. The cost seemed clear. "Nobody around," he confirmed.

"Excellent."

There was a mechanical sound, and as if by magic well-manicured gardens appeared. Trip felt a tug at his end of the handkerchief, and followed Malcolm out of the vessel.

The parking outside the Monarch's residence – a large, graceful set of buildings that had a slightly oriental look – was crowded with strange-looking vehicles. The place itself was lit and music floated out the open windows. It looked like the man was entertaining. Again. After all it wasn't all that long since they had been here in their dress uniforms themselves. Trip could remember almost every moment of that damned first contact, and he was certain Malcolm could too. Well, at least they wouldn't have any problems finding their way around.

Indeed, the Security Officer didn't hesitate one moment and headed directly to an archway which had guards standing on each side. A smile curved Trip's lips as they went through easily, right under the guards' noses; Malcolm must be having a ball, fooling security like that.

The small inner courtyard was deserted. Trip followed his friend up to the door that gave entrance to the Monarch's private apartments. It was unlocked. A moment later they were inside.

Music, voices, and the sounds of partying echoed off the walls. An elegant staircase stretched in front of them; the same elegant staircase they had climbed a fortnight before amidst a horrified buzz, quickly learning that alien visitors and subjects were not allowed to walk behind the Monarch, in the middle of the stairs, but had to keep close to the sides.

Shaking his head at the memory, Trip took the next step and walked, instead, right into a wall; or rather, into Malcolm. Repressing a grunt, he massaged his nose, taking a step back.

A hand came to grab his sleeve and pull him closer.

"Looks like the place is crowded. We'll have to watch out," the Lieutenant whispered.

"You're the one I'll hafta watch out for, if you stop like that," Trip ranted, in the same low voice.

There was no reply, just the soft buzz of a scanner being activated.

"Anythin'?" Trip enquired after a moment.

"Our crate is somewhere in the basement, but it appears emp…"

The sound of steps silenced them. They flattened against a wall and watched two waiters approach, each carrying a large tray with glasses.

"Will they never have enough?" one of them sighed.

"The way they're going they'll be up all night again," the other one replied, deadpan.

"This is crazy."

"Cheer up, it can't last forever..."

The two started up the stairs, keeping dutifully to one side, glasses clinking.

"Did you notice what was in those glasses?" Malcolm whispered to him as soon as they had disappeared.

"Not sure; that vinegar they sold us for wine?" Trip breathed back.

"Perhaps, but I wouldn't mind taking a closer look."

"Ah – no, Malcolm, listen..."

"Follow me, Commander," Malcolm ordered, with a tug of the handkerchief.

_Aye, Sir._

Malcolm obviously loved a touch of danger. Definitely his cup of tea, no pun intended.

They headed up the stairs, towards the thick of it. Trip felt like reminding him the crate was in the basement, but they were already half-way up, and besides – Malcolm knew that. Yes, the man was having fun. Trip hoped he also knew what he was doing.

As soon as they got to the landing at the top, a hand on his chest stopped him. The three salons that fanned out from there were filled with people, and looked so much more alive than the time the Enterprise crew had been received in them.

The one on the right held a number of Zanthians swirling in dance. Literally. The music was a continuum of sound without much rhythm, and people were twirling like eddies, giving Trip a headache just by looking at them. He turned to the left. There people were stretched out on very low, comfortable-looking seats, seemingly engaged in making noise; laughing, and generally just holding very loud and excited conversations.

Damn, but even at his teenage parties there hadn't been such a hellish din. There was a sort of electricity in the air that hadn't been there a week before.

The hankie pulled again, and Trip followed Malcolm into the salon right in front of them, the one with the buffet. In the middle, a long table was laden with all kinds of food. Behind it, veranda doors opened onto another sumptuous staircase that led out into the front garden. Even from where he stood, Trip could see that is was pleasantly lit with soft yellow lamps, while that large square fountain filled with those famished creatures the Monarch had been so proud of was bathed in a greenish light. Groups of people were everywhere, inside and outside, plates in hands, waited on by assiduous servants.

Golly, there had to be at least a couple of hundred guests. The buzzing of voices was so loud Trip could hardly hear himself think. He frowned; Zanthians hadn't seemed such a noisy and jolly bunch.

Malcolm led him along the wall, and Trip realised that he had set a cautious course towards a round table with the drinks they'd seen before on it. If they wanted to get to them, though, they'd have to venture inside the room. What did Malcolm have in mind, anyway? It was hardly the right time and place to have a drink. A determined tug, and Trip could only follow as the Lieutenant braved on, towards their target.

They reached the table without trouble. Trip's eyes wandered over the sea of glasses; the liquid, actually, looked darker than that rather disgusting wine they'd been forced to down with a smile on their lips. As he pondered that, his gaze was drawn to one glass, from which the content was slowly and magically draining. _Sonofa_... How the hell had Malcolm... A _straw_?

Suddenly there were voices behind them. Trip turned to see a couple of people fast approaching. On impulse, he took a step back, realising too late that he should have rather taken one forward, _towards_ Malcolm and not _away_ _from_ him. The string of handkerchiefs tightened… the couple were going to walk right into it…

_What the hell_…

Trip felt the tension slacken and a horrible suspicion dawned. He pulled, and reeled in the hankies as easily as a fisherman an empty line. A fairly large group of people joined the couple at the table, and now he was cut off for good from the spot where Malcolm had been.

Great. What had Mal said he should do, if they lost each other? Whistle? Call? Grope about like a blind man? Trip scowled. Maybe he should just scream and scare the hell out of all these people.

Alright, he remembered now; he should get back to the pod. Damnit, but first he needed some comfort. Coffee! My pips for a cup of coffee! Failing coffee, a drink would do too. His eyes strayed to the filled glasses. Even a sip. Where had Malcolm got that straw? He must have had it on him, since it had been cloaked.

With a quick look around to see if anyone was looking his way, Trip bent over and placed his lips on the rim of a glass, tilting it slightly to get to the liquid.

A moment later someone had sent him sprawling over the table, the ominous sound of breaking crystalware echoing off the walls.

The buzzing of voices stopped abruptly, and in the silence Trip carefully turned to see a bewildered waiter looking, mouth agape, at the mess over the tablecloth and on the floor, where the glasses that had once been on his tray lay in a heap of shards.

"What is happening here?" a well-known voice brusquely enquired.

The Monarch stood framed in the veranda doorway.

"I am... awfully sorry, Your Highness," the waiter stuttered. "I... don't know how it could have happened. I just…"

He faltered, not knowing what to say, and Trip grimaced.

"Well, clean up," the Monarch ordered. Putting a smile on his face, he turned to his guests. "Please, don't let this spoil your fun. The night is young yet! There are more drinks on the table at the other end."

Trip carefully lifted himself from the uncomfortable position and tiptoed to the safety of a wall; with his back against it he finally let out a slow and hopefully inaudible breath. The front of his uniform must be heavily stained with that drink bacause he was reeking something awful. Good thing T'Pol was not here. Well, after all that, he should at least taste the stuff. Trip passed a finger over a wet spot and licked it. _Huh_. Looking vainly down his front, he repeated the operation. Definitely impossible to taste anything that way.

His thoughts were diverted by the sight of the Monarch heading right towards him, and his heart skipped a beat. Had the cloak failed? No, the man was beckoning a servant. The two stopped not far from him.

"How much _Zanthian Zing_ is left?" the Head of State asked. A nerve twitched at the side of his left eye.

Trip's eyes narrowed._ Zanthian Zing_?

"Your Highness, down in the kitchen they have put all of rest in infusion, but the drink isn't done yet."

"I didn't ask you that, you idiot!" the nervous Monarch bit back. "How much is _left_?"

The servant winced. "I think we are down to ten _uppenn_, your Excellency."

The Monarch passed a hand over his bald head. "That's hardly enough for a couple of hours, and I promised my guests…" With a wave of the hand, he enquired, "How long till the rest is going to be ready?"

"Sir, it takes at least couple of days for the liquor to be made," the servant began. "But the kitchen staff seem to think there must be a different, faster way to prepare the drink," he hastened to add. "If only we could read that Earth language..."

"Which reminds me. We have to find them. I want more of the stuff."

Trip collapsed against the wall. He had heard enough. Damn, damn, damn. He had to find Malcolm.

* * *

"Admiral Forrest, Captain," Hoshi's voice said through the open comm. link.

"Thank you."

Archer straightened in his chair, smoothing his expression into something less worried as he tapped the screen on. The man had to be calling because he had received his last report. No matter how hard he had tried to make things sound less disastruous, the report had still been pitilessly uncomplimentary of his – and his senior staff's – diplomatic skills.

Well, he might as well face the music.

"Admiral," he greeted.

Forrest looked back with just the hint of a smile. Too small to read anything in it.

"How are you and your crew doing, Jon?"

"Not bad, Sir, thank you," Archer replied, a bit self-consciously. "Have you… read my report?" he asked, green eyes bravely holding those of his friend and mentor.

"I have." Forrest's eyebrows lifted. "I suppose that particular first contact won't win us any 'best inter-species relations' prize."

"I guess not," Archer agreed hoarsely. "I'm sorry, Admiral. Things kind of started out badly that day, and..." he trailed. Tentatively, he added, "I hope you can avoid sharing this... _experience_ with Soval, Sir."

"Heavens, yes," Forrest huffed out. "I'm in no mood to hear one of his snotty sermons on how Humans are not ready yet to embrace the infinite diversities of other civilisations."

Archer winced, acutely aware of his failure. He was surprised to see Forrest break into a smile.

"I would have loved to see you eat the 'well-wishing muffin of happiness'," he chuckled.

"You should have seen the Monarch's face," Archer said, unable to keep amusement from his own eyes. It had been the height of his personal blunders, biting into the traditional gift given to guests.

They shared a liberating laugh.

"However, I haven't called to talk of all that, Jon," Forrest said after a moment, leaning with his elbows on his desk and intertwining his fingers. At Archer's puzzled frown, he went on, "We got word from Jupiter Station that a number of supply shipments to the station were wrongly labelled. Some of the crates you loaded on Enterprise don't contain what they are supposed to. We are still investigating how that could have happened; as it is, you will run out of a few food supplies sooner than you expected."

Archer made a grimace of discomfort. "Yeah, we figured that out already. The crew is not very happy about the fact that that crate of _salt_ we beamed down to the Zanthians contained, instead, the last of our coffee."

"From what I can tell, you'll also be running out of rice, flour and sugar; though you are well-stocked in salt, paprika and canned tuna," Forrest said, reading off a padd. He lifted smiling eyes and added, "As well as undergarments, though all in size extra-large."

"Great," Archer commented, with a sigh. "If Soval finds out we weren't even able to load the right provisions on our first mission, he'll have a field day."

"That's why I didn't tell him exactly what they are delivering to you," Forrest said with a sly smile. "Only that they are important supplies for your exploration."

There was a long pause. "Delivering?"

Forrest looked briefly away, before meeting Archer's gaze again. "A couple of days ago a Vulcan ship left Earth headed out your way, so I took the liberty of asking them to deliver you a few crates."

"Coffee?" Archer enquired, openly hopeful.

"That too, definitely. I can't have the crew of our flagship remaining without coffee."

Archer smiled. "You just saved me from my first mutiny."

Forrest chuckled. "Well, ask your Science Officer to check long-range sensors. Vulcan ships are quite fast." The blue eyes turned serious. "And do me a favour, Jon: on your next first contact, tread a bit more carefully?"

"Thank you, Sir," Archer replied gratefully. "I will, don't worry. We're learning fast."

The screen went back to the Starfleet logo, and Archer relaxed back into his chair.

* * *

Slithering along the wall was the safest way to make it to the veranda doors. Trip didn't lose any time and gained the spot undetected. The garden looked like the best place to go. Once there, he would find a secluded place and check for Malcolm's biosigns. He should try to find the man – he decided. The lieutenant had said they should meet at the pod, but Trip had important information.

_Depressing_ information. Dammit, the crew were not going to be happy. Jon had better swallow his pride and get those Vulcans to help.

Flat against one of the open doors, Trip eyed the long staircase. There was a constant flow of people going up to the buffet and down into the lit garden. But there, undoubtedly, was his safety; it was only a matter of dodging a few obstacles. Like that waiter carrying up a tray with a pile of dirty plates… or those tipsy guys in the middle, swaying like…

Repressing a scream Trip jerked away from the wet something that had touched his hand. He looked down in time to see a rough, greenish tongue coming back for it, and stumbled further away. It belonged to a six-legged animal that looked like an overlarge sheepdog which had touched an exposed electical wire; or had been given a perm.

Eyes on the creature, Trip slid away another step, but it came following him, sniffing the air. As soon as Trip stopped, the animal pressed against him, tongue going for his hand again. Wincing in disgust, he restrained the urge to raise his arms out of reach, for fear the beast would rear up on its hind legs to get to them.

_Go away; can't you see I'm not interested?_

Actually, it didn't look like the thing _could_ see: if it had eyes they were well hidden – and in any case Trip was cloaked. But its nose obviously more than made up for what it lacked in sight. Hell, he'd better keep on the move, or 'pooch' would attract a few curious glances, licking _the air_ like that.

With sudden determination, Trip started down the staircase, one eye on his obstacle course, the other on his affectionate pursuer. He could only hope it didn't start barking – or making other undesirable sounds.

As he gave a wide berth to an absently-smiling Zanthian headed up into the hall, the Zanthian bent to give the creature a frantic rub on the head. "Hey, Jaepron, have you tried the new drink?" he slurred. With a manic giggle, he added, "You should, you old bones; it'd get you a bit more alert."

_Sure thing._

Trip took advantage and ran down the last few steps, but Jaepron had apparently decided that he wouldn't be left behind, and followed suit. He couldn't hope to outrun a creature with six legs; resigned to the unwanted company, Trip returned his focus to his more important issue: finding an isolated spot from which to consult his scanner. Leaving the lit paths, he swerved onto the rubbery grass, making his way through the greenery and bushes, heading into the dark.

When he judged he was far enough, he finally stopped, looking around to make sure no romantic couples had come looking for privacy in the vicinity. Jaepron's tongue immediately made its appearance again; this time it went for a stain on Trip's uniform.

"Ah, so _that's_ what you like in me, huh?" Trip commented, with a soft chuckle.

"And what would that be, Commander?"

Trip jumped and swivelled to the spot from where the disembodied voice had come. "Did you have to do that, Malcolm?" he said in an angry whisper.

Even Jaepron turned to cast a lazy look. The creature must have eyes after all.

"Well, there aren't many ways in which I could have made my presence known without startling you, now, are there? But I rather enjoyed it, yes," was the smug reply.

Trip wasted a deep scowl on the man, who couldn't see it. "How the hell did you find me, anyway?" he enquired.

"Simple observation and deduction. You may thank your new friend."

"Oh." Trip shifted his gaze back to Jaepron, who had happily returned to licking him clean of the...

_Dammit_.

"I'm afraid I know where _all _of our coffee's ended up," he said deadpan.

"Yes, those bloody drinks," Malcolm snorted back, rather more darkly than Trip would have expected. "Chef is going to want me to launch a few torpedoes when he learns that they transformed his precious coffee into a ghastly alcoholic beverage."

"Is it that bad?" Dragging a finger over a stain and licking it didn't quite allow you to appreciate the _bouquet_ of a drink, and Trip was actually curious.

"I wouldn't give it to my worst enemy," Malcolm said, a wince of disgust in his voice. "Now that's an idea, though; it could be used to extort information under duress."

"Well, somebody here seems to like it," Trip said, trying to get his furry friend to stop licking.

There was a soft clearing of the throat. "Commander, with all due respect, you reek. And I doubt that creature is going to help."

Trip groaned. "Enough, Jaepron! If ya like that stuff so much go get yourself a glass," he muttered, daring to give the creature a shove.

"_Jaepron_? On first-name terms already?" Malcolm teased with a low chuckle.

"I thought we were supposed to keep verbal communication to a minimum," Trip dourly pointed out.

"Right."

"I suppose we'd better get back to the ship and give the bad news," Trip sighed. "Plus I overheard the Monarch say he wants more; we'd better get out of the system and fast."

Malcolm received that piece of news with a low curse. A buzz signalled that he was consulting his scanner.

"Follow me, Commander; our pod is this way."

"Malcolm?"

"Yes?"

"I can't follow you. I can't see you."

"Oh. Of course."

"Here." Trip groped about till he found his friend's arm. "Hold your end," he said, handing him the handkerchief string, which he had stuffed into a pocket.

They walked in dejected silence for a long stretch, with Jaepron in tow.

"At least if we are invisible we can escape the anger of the disappointed crew," Trip commented at some point.

Malcolm chuckled. "And keep our people on their tiptoes, always wondering whether we're looking over their shoulders."

Trip rolled his eyes. "Now, that's typical of you, Malcolm, always focused on work. Think instead of all the practical jokes we could play..."

TBC

As always looking forward to your comments


	6. Chapter 6

Here is the epilogue to this crazy adventure. A big thank you to my readers and reviewers.

The next special month will be "'Tis but a scratch" Month, in April. Feel free to take part!

§ 6 §

Normality was a wonderful thing, Captain Archer mused, as he strode along the corridors of his ship, no longer weary of reading discontent on his crew's faces now that the Vulcan ship had delivered the 'important supplies'. Well – he amended; _normality_ might not exactly be the right word, with two crewmen who still hadn't regained their original appearance, and still looked like shimmering images of themselves. Contrary to what Phlox had imagined, it was taking Trip and Malcolm longer to fully reappear than it had Trip's hand, that time; and he'd been scared as hell that something might have gone awfully wrong. Archer shook his head. What had got into him, to go along with Malcolm's idea to use Suliban cloaking on people? He was going to make sure the Lieutenant didn't get the idea this was a new 'tactical device' at his disposal.

"Evening Captain," Hoshi's upbeat voice said, interrupting his musings.

"Hoshi. Going to the movie night?" he asked. Maybe inspired by his subconscious, Trip had scheduled _Phantom of the Opera_.

Archer slowed down to allow the smaller Ensign to fall in step with him.

"Yes. But first I'm going to have a cup of coffee." Hoshi darted a self-conscious glance. "I never thought I was so addicted to the stuff."

Archer chuckled. "Yeah. And sometimes we take small things so much for granted that we don't even realise we have them. Until we don't."

"Well said, Sir."

They entered the Messhall, and found Trip who was already preparing the chairs for that night's screening. Archer noticed with pleasure that in the last couple of hours, since the end of their shift, he seemed to have regained a lot more _substance_; though the contrast between his shimmering skin and his very visible uniform was still stark and somewhat disturbing.

"Hey, Capt'n," Trip cheerfully greeted.

It was good to see he was once again his old self – at least character-wise. His friendly bickerings with Malcolm had taken a more nasty turn, when he'd been coffee-deprived.

"Commander," Archer replied, returning a smile. "Great progress. By the looks of it, by tomorrow we may hope to have you and Malcolm back for good."

"I really do hope you are correct, Sir," a clipped voice commented.

Archer turned to see the Armoury Officer enter the Messhall.

"I am sick and tired of cutting myself while trying to shave a face I can hardly see."

"Ever heard of electric shavers, Loo-tenant?" Trip teased.

Malcolm just glared at him – something that, for some reason, he managed to do well even with pixels missing from his face – and joined Hoshi at the drink dispenser.

"Coffee, with milk," Hoshi ordered. She took the cup in both hands and, closing her eyes, brought it up to her nose for a deep sniff of its aroma. "Delicious," she said dreamily, before finally taking a sip. "Oh, sorry Lieutenant." Realising she was still standing in front of the machine, she moved out of the way so Malcolm could access it.

"No problem, Ensign," the Lieutenant said, gentlemanly. Moving in place, he cleared his throat. "Coffee, strong," he ordered. He took his cup and brought it to his lips. "Hmm, lovely," he commented.

"Capt'n, that cannot be the real Lieutenant Reed," Trip said deadpan. "You'd better call Security and get the Doc take scans of that man."

"I don't recall ever saying that I don't like coffee, Commander," Malcolm said. "Only that I could go without it."

Archer could have sworn a blush was creeping up his still insubstantial-looking neck and face.

"Right," Trip countered with a sly grin. "As a matter-of-fact, I have been wondering why, on our mission, you brought along a _straw_, of all things. 'Cause for sure it couldn't be to snatch an early sip of that beverage you can so easily go without."

Malcolm cleared his throat. "I simply always go on missions well prepared. At least I didn't dip my uniform in coffee liquor and turn myself into the evening treat of the royal pet."

"Enough, you two," Archer interrupted, with a chuckle. "I don't think we need to worry about Malcolm, Trip. He's definitely the original."

"Thank you, Sir," the man in question said, obviously taking the words as a compliment.

"Now, if it were T'Pol, ordering coffee, that would be another question," Archer continued.

The Mess doors swished open and, as if summoned by the words, the very person entered. She surveyed the many pairs of eyes that had converged on her and said a curteous, "Good evening," looking slightly surprised at such unilateral attention.

"Coming for Movie Night, Subcommander?" Trip said in what sounded like hope. "You're a bit early."

"Thank you, Commander, but phantoms are highly illogical, and from what I could gather opera is excessively emotional."

Archer nodded gravely, reining in his mirth, and watched his Second in Command walk lithely to the drink dispenser.

Once again all eyes converged on her, and she turned to give her crewmates what looked like a puzzled glance.

"Go ahead, Subcommander," Archer encouraged her. "Don't mind us. We are..." He shrugged, giving her a quick smile. "Just wondering what you'll have as a drink."

T'Pol's eyebrows went up, and Archer almost felt bad for her. She must be spending a lot of her time just trying to figure out her Human crewmates.

Finally, she turned back and in her steady Vulcan voice ordered, "Chamomile tea, hot."

"You can breathe, Capt'n," Trip said, deadpan. "She's also the original."

That was when Phlox entered.

He took a look at the group, clapped his hands together, and said, cheerful as ever, "Now, who of you gentlemen and ladies is going to share a nice cup of coffee with me?"

"Doctor," Hoshi said in desbelief. "You never drink coffee..."

In the silence that followed Malcolm suggested, "Shall I call Security, Sir?"

Phlox shot him a frown; then turned to Hoshi, breaking into one of his smiles. "There's always a first time, Ensign."

Archer chuckled. "Hold on, Malcolm. Let's welcome the man to civilization first."

THE END

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